


leggo my eggo

by nayt0reprince



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Gift Fic, Internal Akechi Anguish(tm), M/M, Pre-Relationship, Spoilers, ish, this fic is Srs Business u Guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 12:18:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14832126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayt0reprince/pseuds/nayt0reprince
Summary: mishima claimed waffles are better. the fool. the absolute buffoon. what little did he know. good thing akechi is here, despite better judgment, to show him the light. maybe.





	leggo my eggo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [achu3p](https://archiveofourown.org/users/achu3p/gifts).



> so APPARENTLY today (6/2) is my pal allie-cat's Birth and she NEVER TOLD ME so I had to write something in FIVE HOURS to make it in time. so. this exists. hi hey it’s ur boi ree back at it again with another shuy--wait what. akeshima? yes. does this pairing make sense? nope. do I care? double nope. un-beta'd atm. enjoy!!

Bathed in Tokyo’s limelight, Akechi often found himself in the center of many unwanted attentions. Something as simplistic as meandering to the station to get to school became increasingly difficult; there would be questioning whispers, wandering eyes, sharp breaths of realization, and, at last, ecstatic exclamations of, _“It’s him!”_

At first, he did not quite know what to do in such scenarios, relying on scripted responses that almost came out robotic. Now, after many television interviews the like, he donned his public persona with great aplomb, nary a wrinkle in his performance to be seen. His words, eloquent. His mind, quick-witted. His appearance, maintained and pleasant. Perhaps he attained perfection a little _too_ well, for even something as mundane as standing off to one side in a busy thoroughfare apparently demanded a fanclub ogling at him.

The masses were always easy to please, after all.

Today, however, Akechi - the great Akechi Goro, High School Detective Extraordinaire - found himself being a poor imitation of his admirers. He pretended to check his phone, even though he already knew two and a half minutes ago what time it was, before scanning the crowd for a green shirt emblazoned with a volleyball. Summer sunlight beat at his brow, the stifling air clinging to his shirt and skin. Cheeks all around him were splotched red from the heat. He stepped backward into the shade of some store’s awning before resuming his search. Green shirt. Volleyball. To think this would be what he reduced himself to.

However, he had a point to prove.

“Akechi.”

A voice - surprisingly cleared of awe and replaced with hardened resolve - stole him from his musings and returned him to reality. To his left, a shorter boy, somehow wearing a long-sleeved shirt in this scorched, god-forsaken wasteland, stood beside him, eyes fixated on the people walking by them. Akechi eyed the volleyball, smirked, and straightened his back. Unsurprising for the Phan-Site Admin to be so underwhelming. 

“Mishima,” he tested, a small lilt to his tone. The boy pocketed his phone, turned to face Akechi, and narrowed his gaze.

“Well,” he said, cocking his head towards the south, “you coming or not?”

“Lead the way,” Akechi replied. _To your inevitable downfall._

The boy - Mishima, as learned from direct messages - turned on his heel and strode through the swarms with surprising ease. Akechi followed, gazing over his opponent. Mishima created a network large enough to grab the fake Medjed’s attention, posting threats onto the forum purporting grave consequences. All the buzz, all the hype, all the propelled stirrings and fans surrounding the wretched Phantom Thieves - all from this pale, short high school student with a name composed of characters that bore little significance or memorability. Akechi almost wanted to laugh. Normally, someone like this would not even be worth his time.

But he just _had_ to get know who the Admin was, didn’t he.

And now here he was, feet sore from being crammed into too nice leather shoes, skin damp, and bangs matted against his forehead - all from waiting for this nobody. All to prove a stupid, asinine point.

Being a teenager meant still having a few fallacies here and there to smooth out, he supposed. Besides, meeting Mishima could prove useful in the future, should any of Akechi’s other plans crumble to the wayside. If anything, if he _really_ wanted to justify asking Sae for a day off, he was covering all his bases.

(He knew better. This “meeting” was none of those things.)

Mishima ducked into a sidestreet littered with locked-up bicycles and several lounging alley-cats stretched out onto the cobblestone. Wedged between a small garden and a nameless building, a flowery sign hung from a door reading, “Open.” Between breaths filled with heavy smog, Akechi could practically smell the sweetness from outside. His stomach gurgled. His fingers twitched around his attache case in anticipation. Mishima glanced over his shoulder, nodded, and pushed down onto the curved door handle, a small, tiny bell jingle announcing their much awaited arrival.

“Welcome, welcome!” A rotund woman approached them with a radiant smile, hands clasped before her. Despite the heat, her make-up game remained strong with no signs of giving in. She glanced at Mishima, gazed at Akechi, plucked two wooden slats bearing pieces of paper, and asked, “For two?”

Mishima nodded, and she mosied over toward a vacant booth away from any windows (thank heavens). Music, sounding like older American rock, softly filled the cafe, which only sported a few patrons here and there. Given the checkerboard floors, the leather seats, and the menu offering little else aside from your typical Western breakfast, not many people would be eating such things at a little past noon. 

“Do you need some time for your order?” she asked, but Mishima shook his head, causing Akechi to raise an eyebrow in surprise.

“We need one order of your best pancakes, and one of your best waffles, please.”

“Oh, my.” The woman tapped her chin with intrigue. “That is quite the tall order. Well, let me see what I can whip up for you two, all right? Anything to drink?”

“Water, please.” Akechi paused. “Maybe two glasses.”

Mishima rolled up his sleeves. “Do you have any orange juice?”

“Of course.”

“One glass of that, please.”

“Coming right up, dears.”

She shuffled away, leaving them to stare each other down in silence. Akechi’s fingers rapped against the polished wood and cleared his throat. Mishima rolled one shoulder, then the other - his joints popped in a disconcerting manner. Tension boiled beneath the surface of their seemingly-friendly meeting; neither wanted to give an inch to the other.

“You know,” Mishima said, stretching his arms, “you can always admit you were wrong now and spare yourself the embarrassment later. I can’t _wait_ to tell everyone in chat how in _love_ you’re gonna be with her waffles. I researched all the breakfast places this side of Tokyo all night last night, and this cafe has the _best._ Just, you know, so you’re aware.”

Akechi hummed and placed his phone, aching to open the Phan-Site just to see what everyone else in the chat was saying, close to the napkin dispenser. Mishima eyed it, some slight hesitation flickering in his pupils betraying his feigned bravado. 

“Likewise,” Akechi said, fingers ceasing their rapping. His smile oozed with amiability, but his voice lacked anything thereof. “Be prepared to turn your username into PancakeLover69.”

“Why the sixty-nine?”

“Just to up the stakes. No one would ever be able to take you seriously ever again.”

“Are you trying to destroy my credibility as the Admin?” Mishima clicked his tongue and shook his head. “I should’ve _known_ this get-together was an elaborate ruse for one of your dirty detective tactics.” His grin ruined the serious delivery of his accusation, reducing him to a half-snorted chuckle.

“Oh, dear,” Akechi deadpanned, “I’m afraid you’ve seen right through me. What ever am I to do. My plans, foiled.”

Now they _both_ snickered. This wasn’t good. He was actually enjoying himself.

The drinks clinked onto the table. Akechi tried to retain some semblance of class while chugging the first glass and guzzling down half of the second like some parched vulture left to bake in the desert. Mishima’s perplexed expression told him he failed utterly, but there would be no photos to prove it.

Against better judgment, Akechi decided to change direction in their conversation. “So aside from being a filthy waffle lover and running a website, what else do you do in your spare time?” He glanced at Mishma’s shirt. “Sports?”

Mishima sipped at his orange juice before letting out a sheepish laugh. “Well, kinda. I’m sort of taking a break for now from that, but I’m hoping to get back into it soon. Maybe after summer vacation.” He laced his fingers together, lips pursing. “I guess I mostly read a lot, now that I think about it. Lit is my best class.”

“Like books?” Ah. Akechi swallowed down his enthusiasm with another well-timed sip from his water. 

“I don’t have as much time as I used to, but, yeah.” Mishima leaned back, relaxing into the booth. “I was a sucker for adventure books when I was a kid. These days, I pick up mystery novels or some scifi. Have you ever heard of Cixin Liu?”

Akechi shook his head.

“He wrote a book called _The Three-Body Problem._ There’s a lot to it, but it’s mostly aliens running from their crappy home planet and trying to invade Earth after some woman accidentally received their radio waves.” The antagonism was all but a memory; Mishima prattled along as though he spoke to an old friend as opposed to a newfound forum rival that turned out to be his heroes’ biggest foe. “She was basically some nobody that her country turned on, so she practically told the aliens to come wreck us ‘cause she hated humanity so much. It’s _so_ good. And in the sequel? _Dark Forest?_ The--oh, wait, spoilers. Sorry. You should totally read it.”

“I’ll make sure to pick up a copy soon.” He allowed himself to smile. “Since we’re giving out assigned reading, have you ever gotten around to some classic mysteries?”

“Classics?” Mishima made a face.

“Only good ones, promise.” Akechi opened his attache case and pulled out a book, sliding it across the table. “This one is by Maurice LeBlanc, about Herlock Sholmes.”

“What.”

“You heard me.” His grin widened a fraction. “Since you are so interested in the Phantom Thieves, I believe it may intrigue you in one way or another, given the protagonist.”

Mishima looked the book over, incredulous. “Aren’t _you_ reading this, though?”

“I’ve read it many times.” Akechi waved his hand dismissively. “Just make sure to get it back to me.”

It was only after he uttered those words that he realized his mistake. To get it back would mean to meet Mishma again sometime, possibly in the near-future. To meet Mishima again would imply wanting to talk _more._ Talking more, meeting more, to what end? He didn’t _need_ to meet Mishima again. He just needed a name and a face in case he had to clean up loose ends in the Metaverse after the Phantom Thieves’ fall from grace and Senator Shido’s election. To continue any relation after this could spell trouble. One time was passable; twice invited a myriad of uncalculated possibilities.

“Get it back to you,” Mishima echoed, staring at the back cover. He nodded. “Sure, I can do that, no problem.”

Asking for it back now would be rude. Akechi would have to consider the book a loss and buy a new one later. He needed to stick to the plan: meet the Admin, get a face and name, eventually fade from the Phan-Site into obscurity because of “work,” and take care of this Mishima later if necessary. This already required a complicated amount of effort to even _get_ this far - pretending to be someone else on the forums totally not out of curiosity to see what they were like, getting close (not attached, never, ever attached) to some of the regulars, befriending the Admin _as intended_ , getting to meet him in-person over some silly four-hour-long argument that he totally planned beforehand, and then totally did not make up a plan as a cover for meeting said-Admin on-the-spot in this very monologue because god _damn_ it, he was _panicking_ inside. How much of an idiot could he be?

The pancakes and waffles arrived mere moments later, adorned with lavish syrup and a plethora of strawberries.

A total, complete fool.

“Enjoy, boys,” the woman said with a perky smile.

The ice water sat cold in the pits of Akechi’s stomach as he stared at the waffles before him.

Mishima licked his lips and picked up the fork with some unsteadiness. 

“Ready to lose?” he asked.

Akechi gave a wry smile.

_I think I already have, somehow._

“Bring it on,” he said instead, stabbing the waffle much harder than necessary.

They both eyed each other as they slowly, _slowly,_ inched their rival’s favorite closer to their own mouths, seconds drawn out to years. Maybe he was overthinking this. This friendliness didn’t have to be read that deeply. Meeting more would damage nothing to everything he’s worked for so far, everything he _sacrificed_. He would figure out how to make it all come together, somehow, over time. It helped, too, that Mishima already swore to secrecy after Akechi revealed his identity. 

( **M.:** Wait. _You_ like the PT, too?!

**A.:** Don’t tell a soul. I have an image to live up to, after all.

**M.:** I can’t believe this. OMG

**A.:** Believe it or not, it’s the truth.

It wasn’t. Not that it mattered; this would simply help his believability when he would do a heel-face-turn and _support_ the Phantom Thieves publicly within the coming months. Or so he rationalized with himself.)

He just needed to calm down, to focus. If he could play pretend with Ren well enough, then Mishima would be no problem, either. None of it mattered, in the end. Just a little make-believe. Just a little fun to relieve the stresses from his jobs.

And yet.

The sweetness of the waffle still somehow tasted bitter when a stray thought whispered, _But I want to_ not _pretend, just this once._

*

They stood outside the cafe, dazed.

“A draw,” Mishima drawled, blinking tiredly from his impending food-coma.

“Agreed,” Akechi replied, body sluggish.

“Both are good.”

“Agreed,” he said again, his brain failing to come up with any witty remarks. Who would have thought waffles would have their own appeal, too?

They shifted glances toward one another before exchanging grins. Shoot. When was the last time he had this much fun, talking about books, Internet memes, and more? He swallowed hard and pawed for his phone, eerily silent in his pocket. 

“Number?”

“Number,” Mishima agreed, fumbling for his own. 

Their phones jingled with the new contact information updated. Mishima’s name shone brightly on Akechi’s phone, stinging at his eyes as a harsh reminder of how deep he’s into this now. He let the screen dim - _just a pretend friendship, do not be a fool -_ before giving Mishima a smile.

“This was fun,” he allowed himself to say. Safe territory. Nothing serious. Nothing to break his own illusions.

“Yeah.” Mishima stretched and yawned before giving Akechi a tired grin. “Feel free to text me if you want - I try to respond by the end of the day, if I’m not busy - you know. Doing Admin stuff. It’s not easy tracking down all those requests.” 

“Want me to walk with you to the station?” Polite. Cordial. 

“Huh? Oh. No, I’m good, I know my way back from here.” Thank god. Akechi couldn’t take much more. Mishima grinned and gave a small wave. “See you, _arch-nemesis._ ‘Til next time.”

Next time. Akechi matched his grin and gave a curt wave.

“Until then.”

*

It was on a display case, and on-sale, no less.

Akechi thumbed through the pages - over five-hundred pages, a week or two’s worth of reading - before biting his bottom lip. He approached the counter, ignored the furtive glances from some onlookers, paid for his selection, and left. The underground mall bursted at the seams from people, but at that moment, everything was quiet, muffled. He looked over the book before chuckling weakly and stuffing it into the attache case before pushing through the crowd to get to the train. He was probably going to miss it. He was probably going to be late for school - again.

Oh well. Just meant more time for reading.

For “next time,” of course.


End file.
